Death Eaters, Incorporated
by Earthshine.and.stars
Summary: A typical gathering of Death Eaters, in which stocks are discussed and Bellatrix relates an interesting report. Meanwhile, the Hogwarts staff encounter some...questionable reading material.
1. Chapter 1: Malfoy Manor

**Disclaimer: The characters portrayed below are the property of J.K. Rowling, and the author fully acknowledges the fact that Rowling's work is copyrighted. In no way do I seek to gain any profits.**

**What the reader sees below is the product of a stressed mind. I blame this insane mess on too much work and caffeine =)**

The moon shone, bathing the impeccably-trimmed landscape in cold silver light. Goblin-wrought gates gleamed, peacocks strutted about languidly, and row upon row of perfect green hedge stood erect in attention to the sprawling behemoth that was Malfoy Manor. Below the respectable, ivy-covered building was a cavernous dungeon, and in that dungeon lurked all sorts of creatures: unspeakable monsters, abominations that thrived upon the dark pleasures of committing horrible deeds.

Creatures like the Death Eaters.

Lord Voldemort folded his hands and rested them on the rich mahogany table. Nagini was stretched out comfortably at his feet, all two reptilian meters of her. Sitting on both sides of the table were Voldemort's loyal followers, some shedding heavy traveling cloaks. Several candles were strategically placed on the solid wooden surface, and the faces of the men and women were thrown into sinister, flickering light. He cast a glance around, surveying his surroundings.

Excellent. The atmosphere was perfect.

"Welcome," hissed Voldemort. "It is my pleasure to begin the monthly meeting of Death Eaters…Incorporated."

The pause served no purpose other than to instill a dramatic effect. It was nonetheless successful, for the members of the organisation grinned, cackled evilly, or participated in a healthy measure of both.

He smiled (an eerie sight to behold) and turned to one of the seated figures, a blonde-haired man dressed in opulent robes. "It is time for the financial report. Lucius, if you will."

Lucius Malfoy nodded respectfully in Voldemort's direction. "As you wish, My Lord." Clearing his throat, he reached into his robes and withdrew a sheaf of crisp parchment, which he opened up with a flourish.

"First, the stocks. We sold two hundred shares of Nimbus for fifteen thousand Galleons, three hundred-fifty shares of Ollivander's for twenty-five thousand Galleons, one hundred shares of Zonko's for ten thousand Galleons, and one hundred twenty shares of that Muggle company Apple for twenty thousand Galleons."

There was a dense silence as all wizards present digested the information. Then, an indignant "Zonko's, Lucius? Why didn't you sell Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes instead?" issued from a distraught Nott.

"Zonko's gave us a better profit margin," answered Lucius wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Besides, Weasley's just launched another new product. I predict that it will become vastly popular in the near future. Why, when Draco informed me of their Skiving Snackboxes, we sold our shares of Weasley's for a profit of thirty thousand Galleons. That was a good decision, if I do say so myself."

A general murmur of agreement broke out among the Death Eaters.

"Hang on," said Nott, apparently unsatisfied with Malfoy's words. "You said that you invested in a _Muggle_ company?" He frowned in disgust, and several other Death Eaters echoed the sentiment.

"Disgusting."

"Muggle companies are inferior, Lucius."

"Merlin's beard…"

"And I thought you were a pureblood."

"Now don't get your robes in a twist," snapped Malfoy irritably, glaring at the dissenters. Such foolishness. "I agree that Muggles are inferior to the pureblooded race, but some companies actually give us good profits. Take a look at that." He gestured to a spot on the parchment and Nott leaned closer, squinting.

"I don't see anything, Malfoy. If you're trying to trick-"

"Put on your glasses."

The burly man complied, pulling on a pair of round, wire-rimmed spectacles. He peered intently at the parchment, and was silent.

"Well?"

"…I reckon you're right."

The blonde grinned smugly at a scowling Nott and handed the parchment to Voldemort, who sat regarding them with amusement.

"Wonderful, wonderful…you have served me well, Lucius."

Malfoy bowed his head in acknowledgement and sat back. With the squabble over, the Dark Lord handed the financial report to Wormtail, who scurried upstairs to file it away for safekeeping. Unfortunately, it ended up serving as the man's makeshift napkin. Voldemort did not possess the Inner Eye, however, and thus could not See the document's imminent doom.

"Now," the Dark Lord continued, snakelike gaze flickering over the faces of those assembled. "Who do we have next? Ah, yes…Lestrange?"

One jerked awake with a grunt. The other two were engaged in a rather inappropriate tour of the human anatomy, and broke apart with a guilty start.

"Yes, My Lord?" chorused all three Lestranges simultaneously.

"No, you prats," growled Rabastan, shooting the duo a poisonous glare. That was an impressive feat, for he had been dreaming about a keg of Firewhisky not a minute before. "He means _me_."

Rodolphus responded by cracking his knuckles ominously. The younger Lestrange brother quaked and shrank back nervously with a timid "OfcoursehemeantyouRudy". Bellatrix cackled maniacally and tugged on her husband's arm.

"Oh stop it, Rudy, can't you see you're scaring him? My, what a bad man you are sometimes," she admonished mockingly, and Rodolphus smirked.

"Bad? You haven't seen the worst yet, Bella," he shot back, grinning slyly and pulling the woman closer.

Voldemort cleared his throat hastily. "Lestrange…the female one. I wish to hear your report." The last thing he needed was another reenactment of their earlier shenanigans. Yes, he was the feared Dark Lord, but he possessed the social aptitude of a cactus. Such…foreign…displays of human interaction nauseated him.

Bellatrix straightened up, albeit reluctantly. "Yes, My Lord. The report." Rummaging around in her robes, she looked slightly jilted when her search proved fruitless. Her next course of action was to empty out her pockets. A wand, six Knuts, two Galleons, a pack of gum, three knives, a bottle of Madam Softskin's Lotion, and a few crumpled tissues were scattered onto the table. One final search yielded a tube of mascara, which joined the heap of pocket junk.

Annoyed, she turned her attention to the mass of curls perched insanely atop her head.

A few minutes and a stream of profanities later, Bellatrix's hand emerged from her hair victoriously, a small plastic bottle clenched in her fingers.

She glanced around nonchalantly at the stunned faces of her fellow Death Eaters. "What is it? Hair is remarkably useful for storage. You lot need a better sense of creativity." She scoffed contemptuously. "Stop looking at me as if I'm insane."

A long silence. Then, amid a sudden babble of reassuring phrases ("certainly not, why would we think so?"), Voldemort raised his voice and all but shouted above the hubbub.

"Bellatrix! The bottle, if you will."

Silence reigned once more, punctuated by the scrape of Bellatrix's chair as she rose and offered the bottle. Her master plucked it from her with cold fingers and sat back down again, studying it intently.

"Most intriguing…"

Voldemort appeared mesmerized by the bottle, turning it this way and that to let the candlelight play over its glossy surfaces. He held the cylinder up higher and shook it vigorously. Then, he tossed the bottle up and down, flinging it until it clunked against the stone ceiling. Next he put it to his ear and listened intently; dissatisfied, he flung it down upon the hard granite floor where it thudded dully, and stomped on it.

He had pulled out his wand and was preparing to blast it apart when a sudden thought occurred to him. Picking up the bottle and sitting down calmly, the man crooked one long finger and smiled. "Bellatrix. Come here."

"Er, My Lord?" Standing up, she exchanged uneasy glances with the befuddled Death Eaters, and shuffled her way over to where Voldemort sat at the head of the table. She offered him a hesitant smile, convinced that he had lost his mind at last, but he returned it almost smugly.

"My faithful servant, you procured this substance, did you not?"

Now, this was interesting. "Of course, My Lord. Just as you ordered me to. From that Muggle farmersea…farmassee," she added on hurriedly, hoping to please him. She figured that the more details she gave him, the better off she was. It didn't really matter that she scarcely remembered the name of that blasted Muggle place.

"Ah."

How was it possible for the man to speak volumes in a single utterance? A simple "ah" conveyed the Dark Lord's satisfied complacency, spoke of the pleasure he experienced from her completed mission, and also contained a subtle undercurrent of doubt.

Such things probably came naturally with the title of Dark Lord.

Voldemort continued. "And did these farm-ass people ever relate any instructions to you?" He paused. "I have no idea whatsoever how to open this thing," he confessed rather sheepishly, and handed the bottle to Bellatrix.

A long, shocked silence followed.

Voldemort, Dark Lord of the Wizarding World, Number One of the Most Wanted Warlocks, Five-Time Winner of Witch Weekly's Most Attractive Villain Contest, and Supreme Holder of Titles Too Long to Bequeath, had looked sheepish. Voldemort, who was never embarrassed, never one to admit a weakness, never one to give up-

"I reckon there's a gas leak," muttered Narcissa to Lucius, and she quietly summoned a house-elf to check up on the kitchens. The being Disapparated with a resounding crack, startling everyone out of their stupor.

Bellatrix turned the bottle over with trembling hands and managed a weak laugh. "Well, My Lord…I suppose I shall read what's on it?"

With no response from Voldemort, she scanned her eyes over the bottle's surface. And squinted. Those words were miniscule. "'Tylenol Extra Strength. One hundred tablets, fifty milligrams each. Keep out of reach of children. Overdose warning: Taking more than the recommended dose may cause liver damage. In case of overdose, get medical help or contact a Poison Control Center right away.'"

A Poison Control Center?

All eyes swiveled to the empty chair on Voldemort's right.

"Severus is not here with us tonight," said Voldemort, "as I have instructed him to remain at Hogwarts."

"Remain at that- that _Mudblood-loving _school?"

"Reckon what old Snape is up to, eh Cissy?"

"Brewing another potion, probably."

"Maybe he's washing his hair."

"What in the name o' the devil be Voldemort doin', sendin' Snape off t' cosy up wi' the enemy?"

"Don't be silly, Fenrir…he's getting his nose fixed at one of those Muggle Healer places."

"Heh, the Dark Lord needs to go to one of those-"

"QUIET!"

"Now," hissed Voldemort menacingly, once the voiced died down in the cold dungeon, "listen up closely, you thickheaded fools. I have stationed Severus inside of that old coot's school because I seek to learn more about his plans. That sort of information requires skill…something that Severus has, unlike the lot of you." He paused. "Nobody is to say a word against him. Am I clear?"

There was a chorus of "Yes, Master," and "Aye, Milord,". Voldemort nodded in satisfaction and went on with the meeting.

"I bet you five Galleons that Snape is bored out of his wits," muttered Rodolphus to Bellatrix, who sniggered.

Unbeknownst to the Death Eaters, Snape was indeed bored. Several hundred kilometres to the north, the staff of the esteemed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was holding its monthly faculty meeting.


	2. Chapter 2: Staff Meetings and Magazines

**Author's note: Thanks for the reviews! :D I apologize for the long gap in updating this story- I was at a loss for ideas, but then _this_ popped into my mind... Somehow, I'd always imagined something like this happening in the staff room. :)**

**Standard disclaimers apply here.**

* * *

><p>As a man who preferred to languish in the dank dungeons of Hogwarts, Severus Snape naturally abhorred any sort of social interaction with his colleagues. He was comfortable dealing with plants and dubious organs when it came to brewing potions, but people…they were different. Talkative. Annoying. Dunderheaded brats who simply couldn't fathom-<p>

All right, not all people were Gryffindors, but he loathed them all equally. Without living and breathing human beings, one couldn't hold staff meetings. And so it was no surprise that Snape, by logic, hated those meetings.

There was a more mundane reason, however.

Meetings were boring.

Snape sighed, sinking lower into the deep recesses of his overstuffed armchair. He had positioned it so that he lurked in the darkest corner of the faculty room, present to offer snide remarks but far enough to stay out of range from Minerva's barbed glares.

Said Transfiguration professor was currently involved in a deeply intellectual conversation with Aurora Sinistra, the woman who taught Astronomy. After a halfhearted attempt to eavesdrop, he learned that the witches were appalled at Celestina Warbeck's latest antics.

Apparently, the witch had been involved in a scandal. Something about a bottle of mead and a vampire.

Grumbling under his breath, he shifted in his seat and glanced at the staff room door. Most of the professors, save for McGonagall, Sinistra, and himself, had yet to arrive. Faculty meetings typically consisted of the professors trickling in to socialise and relax, with the headmaster's arrival signaling the start of the meeting. Of course, Dumbledore was usually late.

Which meant that Snape endured half an hour of boredom. Sometimes he thought that the old man hated his very existence- why else would he be subject to such torment?- but he always pushed that thought aside.

Now, however, he didn't, for the door opened and a small mountain of books scurried in.

Ah. The house-elf was here.

It was another ritual of staff meetings: One of the house-elves would arrive with a collection of newspapers and magazines, something that Dumbledore believed fostered a spirit of creativity. As if gorging one's brain on gossip did any good right before a faculty meeting.

Snape thought that it was a pointless waste of parchment, and regarded the material as fireplace fodder.

The creature set down its burden on the coffee table in front of the couch. McGonagall and Sinistra paused in their discussion to thank the being, and resumed once the elf had departed. Not a second later, however, and the door banged open with a flourish to admit-

"Septima!"

"Hey, you lot, missed me?"

Snape groaned inwardly. Septima Vector had arrived, and with her, twenty decibels of noise. The blonde grinned cheekily and sauntered over to the couch, plopping herself down between Sinistra and McGonagall.

"Say…" She glanced around quickly and noted Snape's presence. "No one else here? Just the bat in the corner?"

"Vector. I possess a name."

"Aww now, don't get sore with me, Snape." Rolling her eyes, the arithmancer turned back to her two friends. "How is it that everyone besides us is late?"

"Perhaps they're caught up with grading," offered McGonagall.

"Maybe they're preoccupied with something or the other," quipped Sinistra.

_Shut up_, thought Snape with venom, complete with a matching glare.

Unfortunately, the Fates were (as Trelawney would say) angry with him, for just as he'd tuned the conversation out, a loud and high-pitched shriek pierced the air.

"WHAT- _IS **THIS**_?"

Ears ringing, Snape looked up to see Vector on her feet, dangling a pamphlet of paper by two fingers, a look of utter revulsion etched upon her face. The other two professors were staring at it with a mixture of curiosity and disgust.

As if things couldn't get any worse, the door opened again.

"Septima Vector!"

"Oh, I say!"

Professors Sprout and Flitwick stood in the doorway, eyeing Vector with horrified looks. Catching their glances, the woman spluttered indignantly and flung the booklet at Sinistra, who caught it with a grimace. "S- Stop looking at me like that! It's hers!"

The usually mild-mannered astronomer blinked, then sprang up and lunged for Vector. "Take that back, you-!"

"Hey, hands off!"

"-hex you for saying that!"

"Yeah? I'd like to see you try, stargazer!"

"Ooh, you little piece of-"

"**QUIET**!"

"Now," hissed Snape, unknowingly echoing Voldemort's words, "what is all this nonsense about?"

He stood glowering at the professors, boredom long since replaced with anger. Sinistra swallowed heavily and let go of Vector's robes, the arithmancer taking several steps back. Sprout and Flitwick remained in place, dumbstruck, while McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

"Nothing's going on, Severus," said Sinistra in a hoarse voice, "it's just that Septima found this in there."

She nodded first to the booklet, which lay discarded on the couch, and then at the stack of magazines. Snape glanced at it. "You dolts were upset over a silly magazine-"

He stared, the words dying in his mouth as all coherent thoughts vanished.

A witch winked at him from the cover, smirking coyly as she ran her hands over the fluorescent pink title. That, incidentally, happened to be all the clothing she wore. All of his common sense departed along with the blood in his face, rushing instead to another area.

"See? I knew you'd understand," came Vector's voice, taking his silence for disapproval. Snape paid her no attention, his gaze riveted hypnotically on the cover.

"Er- Septima, dear? I don't think he's listening…"

"Pomona? That there's _Playwizard_. Only hormonal wizards read that sort of junk."

A pause.

"Oh. Snape's a wizard."

Suddenly, reality smacked him across the face- literally. Snape blinked, dazed, as McGonagall shook out her hand and glared pointedly at him. He cleared his throat and stuttered uncharacteristically, fighting down an urge to turn red with mortification.

"Uh- I-"

He was saved from having to come up with a witty retort when the door opened again and admitted professors Hagrid and Trelawney.

"Sorry 'm late, but I brought a load o' rock cakes! Thought it wo' help…hang on, what're yeh starin' at?"

"Hello, Hagrid," managed Flitwick uneasily, "we've just found a small issue with the magazines."

"Wha' kind o' issue?" Hagrid leaned in closer to look, and promptly dropped his tray of rock cakes.

"Blimey! Warn me next time, will yeh?"

"Ohhh, teapots and tea leaves! My Inner Eye…has been blinded."

And Trelawney promptly fainted into a startled Hagrid's arms.


End file.
